As Dead As Dead Can Be
Taking my time, I will launch a stream of nicotine, spiked with tars and all the other filth stashed away in my lungs, into your empty eye-pit. And you will be sitting like that at the other end of your queer apartment. The number of the floor this place is in must be about twice as large as my age and just about the same as yours. Were you a little less busy right now, you’d certainly say: ‘Damn, boy, you a gun-slingin’ son of a bitch!’
You sit in your armchair with such a pacified gaze that I can’t help envying you. Either the midnight city-lights, or the shimmering of the blinds in the wind, or my heavy weary thoughts make me fancy you are stroking the velvet of the armpad. Well, you might as well do that. It’s deathbed upholstery for you, after all.
Where does the smoke from your head go? Stringing up all the muscles of my body, I try to make the smoke-stream as thin as possible. But it doesn’t come out. Isn’t there enough smoke in your head yet, the way it is? You’re queer… And as dead as dead can be. That’s reassuring…